In the Kingdom of Temeria, King Foltest was not a man easily rattled. He had survived scandals, curses, and political betrayals that would have broken a lesser ruler. He sat in his council chamber in Vizima, staring at a map of No Man's Land. His mood was as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the Pontar River.
"I gave a direct order," Foltest said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "The merchant village of the Great Sun was to be left in peace. They are neutral. They are a buffer. More importantly, they are a window into the Nilfgaardian markets that our treasury desperately needs."
Across the table, his advisors shifted uncomfortably. They knew the King's reputation: he was a wise monarch but ruled with an iron fist, especially when his authority was questioned.
"Commander Harlen thought he was being a patriot, Your Majesty," a scribe whispered. "He was convinced they were a nest of spies."
"Harlen is a fool who confuses stubbornness with strategy," Foltest snapped. "And now? Where is this 'patriot' now?"
The doors to the chamber burst open. A scout, his leather armor caked in dried marsh mud and his face pale with shock, stumbled in. He didn't even wait for the proper protocol before dropping to one knee.
"Sire... the survivors have returned to the border. Harlen's unit is... shattered."
Foltest leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Explain. Did the Nilfgaardians finally cross the Yaruga? Did a mob of peasants rise up with pitchforks?"
"No, Sire," the scout swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "They say they were attacked by ghosts... metal demons in bone-white armor. They didn't use bows or spells. They used sticks of thunder that shattered steel like glass. They moved with a grace no man possesses. Harlen... Harlen's sword was turned to dust before he could even swing it."
The room went silent. Foltest exchanged a glance with his royal advisors. In a world of Witchers, mages, and monsters, tales of the supernatural were common, but this was different. This sounded like a disciplined military force—one with technology or magic that defied everything the North knew.
"Metal demons," Foltest mused, tapping his ringed finger against the table. "Harlen's incompetence has managed to stumble upon something far more dangerous than a few Nilfgaardian spice merchants."
He looked at the map, specifically the area north of the village where the "Iron Spire" was rumored to have appeared.
"If these 'demons' wanted Harlen dead, he'd be a corpse in the mud," Foltest reasoned. "Instead, they sent him back to me with a message of fear. They are disciplined. They are guarding something."
The King stood up, his regal silhouette casting a long shadow. "I will not have a third power rising in my backyard without knowing its face. If they aren't mages and they aren't monsters, then we need someone who understands the 'unusual' to investigate."
He turned to his captain. "Send word to the Blue Stripes. I want Vernon Roche to gather intelligence. And find me a Witcher. If there's something in that forest that can turn steel to dust, I want a professional to tell me how to kill it."
The morning mist in the Velen marshes was thick, but it couldn't hide the approach of the Temerian elite. Vernon Roche, commander of the Blue Stripes, walked with a hand on his mace, his eyes scanning the treeline. Beside him, Lambert—a Witcher of the School of the Wolf—had his silver sword already loosened in its scabbard.
"I don't like the smell of this, Roche," Lambert growled. "It doesn't smell like magic, and it doesn't smell like rot. It smells like... burnt air."
They rounded the final bend toward the Village of the Great Sun and froze. Standing in the center of the road was a figure in bone-white, segmented armor. Suddenly, a booming, distorted female voice amplified by a Megaphone shattered the silence.
"HALT. IDENTIFY YOURSELVES AND STATE YOUR PURPOSE. YOU ARE APPROACHING A SECURED RESEARCH PERIMETER."
The Temerian soldiers behind Roche leveled their crossbows, but Roche raised a hand. "I am Vernon Roche, Special Forces Commander to King Foltest," he shouted. "We are here to investigate the 'incident' involving Commander Harlen. We mean no harm. Harlen acted against royal orders—his aggression was his own."
The white-armored guard didn't move her Tyrannoraptor, but after a moment, she lowered it slightly. "Access granted. But be warned: cause no trouble. It would take less than a minute to neutralize your entire unit. Enter."
As they entered, the village was surreal. The merchants weren't just fine; they were in the middle of a massive economic shift. A "metal demon" was leaning against a stall, casually negotiating with a merchant named Pieter.
The scout pulled out a Gold Card—a slim, rectangular slab of pure, 24-karat gold refined to a level unseen on the Continent.
"One card for five thousand Orens," the scout said.
The merchant stared at the gold, his hands trembling. He had never seen gold so perfectly shaped. "By the Great Sun... where did you get this?"
Roche and Lambert exchanged a look of pure shock. In Temeria, the Oren was the law. The Crown was the currency of Redania and the city of Novigrad. They weren't just hoarding gold; they were injecting massive amounts of refined bullion into the local economy, dwarfing the wealth of the Northern Kings.
"They aren't hoarding gold," Roche whispered. "They're using it as scrap metal to buy out the village."
Lambert walked up to the scout, sniffing the air. "You're not a mage," the Witcher stated. "But you're not exactly human either, are you? I can hear your heart... it's beating too steady."
The scout turned his white-helmeted head. "We are the future, Master Witcher. I suggest you get used to the rhythm."
[INTELLIGENCE GATHERED: TEMERIAN ELITE INFORMED OF SCIENTIFIC PARADIGM.]
[MORALE SHIFT: LOGICAL CURIOSITY REPLACING SUPERSTITIOUS FEAR.]
"The Doctor is ready to see you now," the guard announced, gesturing toward a sleek, white Transport Vehicle that had just hummed into the village square. "He thinks it's time the North understood the 'Order' we intend to bring."